"Motherly of her, don't you think? But unfortunately, for her tender intentions, the experiment was an awful fluke. I came out of it as suddenly as I went in, only more melancholy, more morose than before, utterly disgusted and sickened with the whole scheme of creation. I wouldn't touch my violin for days, and for similar periods they couldn't get me away from it long enough to eat or sleep. I gave a few recitals, brilliant but uneven, and the critics were less kind than usual. My mother was in a perfect funk, but I was utterly indifferent. Nothing interested me at all. It was too much trouble even to live, and if I had condescended to anything so positive as a wish, it would have been for death." He paused, and threw himself back wearily upon the pillow. "In fact, that is the way I am now, only the longing is intense instead of indifferent." He closed his eyes. An expression of fatigue and disdain brooded over his drawn features. Anne leaned forward impulsively and took his long, hot hand in both of hers. "Don't," she begged, "I cannot bear to hear you speak so. It wrings something in my soul. Surely, you will not remain so unhappy always. Your music, your beautiful music will console you. It cannot fail!" His fingers twined about hers almost painfully. "My music, my beautiful music," he murmured. He turned his head on the pillow restlessly. "I shall not make it any more. I'm not fit, I have dishonored it, and it will not come to me any more. That night--" he faltered and turned his head away from her pitying eyes. "When I failed, you know?" His voice demanded her help. "Yes, yes, I know," she whispered. "I was not there, but I read about it in the paper. I felt so sorry, so heartbroken for you. I had heard you so often, and with such joy." Tears in his eyes, he looked up at her gratefully and continued, "That night I was playing as usual, in fact a little better than usual, when all of a sudden every note went out of my head completely, and left nothing but a blank. It was as if music had ceased to exist. I wasn't frightened or ill, I simply couldn't play the violin any more. That was all. Since then I haven't touched it." Drawing his hand abruptly out of hers, he turned on his side and hid his face in the pillow. She rose, and standing by the head of the bed, put her fingers on his tumbled, blonde head.